


lost, and by the wind grieved

by gotham_ruaidh



Series: Gotham Writes for Imagine Claire & Jamie [29]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotham_ruaidh/pseuds/gotham_ruaidh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine travelling through the stones wipes ones memory clean... // Imagine that instead of the time-travel Claire is dealing with memories form another incarnation - haunting dreams of Jamie, half-forgotten in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost, and by the wind grieved

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt sent in to [Imagine Claire & Jamie](http://imagineclaireandjamie.tumblr.com/post/139238290052/imagine-travelling-through-the-stones-wipes-ones) on tumblr. I'm posting my Imagine prompts here on AO3 for easier reading and in case there's anyone here who might not be on tumblr. Do feel free to check out the blog and send in prompts if you have more ideas for our favorite pair!

Claire jerked awake, short of breath, her right hand - feeling strangely naked - pressed tightly to her breastbone, tracing the patterns of her fluttering heart.

She never remembered these dreams - where she was, who she was with, what she was doing - but small, sharp details always lingered, following her into consciousness. The tang of blood in her mouth. The scent of gunpowder and dried herbs. The clop of horses’ hooves. The wind screaming in her ears.

And the warmth of a man - smelling of spicy sweat - his voice a low burr in her eardrums - his arms warmth and safety - his taste fire and devotion and home.

So these memories - or imaginings - clung to her as she suffered through mundane household chores, the endless dinner parties where she politely listened to professors prattle on about a mathematical theorem or some long-dead arcane king, the stilted conversations over tasteless dinners with a man whose gold ring was the lightest and most delicate of chains. 

Something had happened that summer, right after the war. Five months had passed between when she crouched to gather those forget-me-nots and when she’d awakened - on her birthday - in an Inverness hospital. Frank said she’d fainted - the stress of the war finally catching up with her - and hit her head, and lain in a coma, unconscious as the months passed. And she had no memories, no proof to believe otherwise.

And yet - the dreams. Of kilted men, speaking a strange, guttural language - of accusations of spying and witchcraft - of English soldiers bedecked in their scarlet coats - of sharp breezes and cool, refreshing streams.

And of the red man - faceless - voiceless - whose soul called out to hers.

As the winter passed, and the days grew shorter, and Frank’s students prepared for their end-of-term exams - she withdrew further into her dreamworld. For it seemed much more real than her waking nightmare. It was a place wholly different from her own - but yet, she was home. She was cared for. She was cherished. 

She was loved.

And finally - in the small hour of a dark night in December - she awoke, trembling beneath the covers, terrified of waking Frank, lying cold and still as a statue beside her.

The man. The red man. He’d known her - wanted her - loved her. Beyond all reason, all logic. And she’d finally seen his face - drawn up tight, in pain, eyes full of love as he’d said his goodbye.

“Jamie,” she breathed. “Oh, God. Jamie.”


End file.
